


Shockwave

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:51:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: How would it feel if you thought you killed a planet? Spoilers, 1.26 -2.01 "Shockwave." (07/01/2002)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: The idea of the characters going EVA when off-duty is not original to me but was inspired by a scene from the very sweet story "Being Alone" by Paradox.  
  
Again, as usual, much thanks to my beta--you know I write these for you!  


* * *

It was quiet out here. Peaceful, with the only noise the gentle rasp of his breathing in the environmental suit helmet.

But then, he supposed it should be peaceful. He was standing over a graveyard.

No. Not a graveyard, a crematorium. The blackened remains of a holocaust.

He was standing on the underside of the saucer section of the _Enterprise_ , held in place by the magnets on the soles of his boots. From this angle he could see the sun rise over the dead planet; likely he'd be the last one to do so for several hundred years. Well, that really depended on how important the mining operation had been, perhaps, but he couldn't imagine the planet ever being colonized again—it would desecrate the dead.

There had been nearly four thousand people on that planet—not to mention the vegetation and wildlife. Because of him they were all dead. Everything was dead. Because of him that hopeless sun might as well be rising over a stone. No one would ever turn his or her face to its light again. No plant or creature would ever benefit from it.

He supposed his father might be pleased—his wayward son had finally managed to prove him right. Madeline would be disappointed. She alone would have expected better of him.

"I'm sorry, Maddy," he whispered. He'd failed her. He'd failed everyone.

He watched the sun rising, standing vigil for all the dead Paraagans, their immolated planet. "I am so terribly sorry."

* * *

Sickbay was the worst, being back on the ship and alive. Before then all he'd had to think about was their shuttle, the shockwave that was throwing them through the burning atmosphere, keeping everyone on board alive. It was only afterwards, back aboard the _Enterprise_ that he'd had to deal with what he'd done.

He hadn't even known Trip had been injured. Just another black mark to add to his list of crimes, he supposed, that he'd almost managed to get him killed. All he'd wanted to do was take the engineer in his arms, weep out his relief that the man was still alive, his remorse for all those who were not. But he didn't have the luxury of relief or remorse, such tiny reprieves buried amidst the ashes of the thousands dead. He didn't have the right.

He had repeated to the captain, over and over again, how he had locked down both plasma ducts for the shuttle, how any leaks would have set off alarms. Archer hadn't believed him. He didn't blame the man: after all, he no longer really believed it either. What else could have accounted for the catastrophe? He had been so sure while they were circling in for a landing, so absolutely certain that he had exceeded the Paraagans' safety protocols, that he had closed both plasma ducts completely and locked them, that he hadn't made any mistakes.

But what if he had?

While Archer was arguing with Hoshi, insisting that there had to be _someone_ left alive on the planet, someone they could still help, he had been looking at Trip. Dr. Phlox had finished repairing the mild fracture in his skull, but the commander was still unconscious. He looked so peaceful: not yet aware of what had truly happened. Malcolm took what comfort he could in watching each even breath, each sign of life.

God, how Malcolm had envied him, how he had envied them all. Everyone crowded into the claustrophobic sickbay. He had envied them their shock and horror and grief. He had even envied their guilt, because it was so misplaced. They were all innocent. They'd had nothing to do with what happened. He was the one who had been responsible for the safety protocols. He was the one who had pressed the buttons. He was the one who had thought he'd done everything right.

He was the one who had killed an entire planet. The only one.

* * *

"Malcolm?" Trip's voice, sounding slightly unnatural through the comlink in his helmet.

"Yes, commander?" It was full day now, on the part of the planet directly below them. The sun was so beautiful, shining like a benediction on the scorched earth.

There was a pause, and Malcolm could imagine Trip, wherever he was on _Enterprise_ , taking a deep breath as he kept his thumb on the com button. "I thought you were still checkin' the shuttle pod."

"I took a break." It was in his rights to, though it wasn't strictly regulations for crew to go EVA without a good reason. He had indeed been down in the docking bay, using a scanner to go over the shuttle yet one more time. He was sure he had found an unidentified EM signature near the aft plasma ducts—he was planning on having his team check it again in the morning.

Then the idea of even being near that shuttle was suddenly more than he could bear. He had packed up his tools and gone right to the kitting room.

"Your shift ended about four hours ago—you should be sleepin'."

"I wouldn't sleep." He hadn't even bothered to try.

He imagined Trip hanging his head near the com, his eyes closed and brow furrowed in frustration, and Malcolm's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "Look, Malcolm," Trip said, "Just come on in, okay?—If you won't come to bed than I won't either. We'll check the shuttle logs again or somethin', see if there's anything maybe we missed the first couple times around."

"Trip," Malcolm asked as the _Enterprise_ slowly moved from the dayside of the planet to its twilight and through to night, "do you think it was my fault?"

Trip's answer was immediate. "Not on your life. I _know_ you. If you say those damn plasma ducts were closed, they were _closed_."

Malcolm would have thought so himself, just a few hours ago. The shuttle's diagnostic logs confirmed that the plasma ducts were closed. Then he had found evidence that the flashpoint for the shockwave had originated just underneath one of them. He didn't want to remember the look in his captain's eyes when Malcolm had told him that. "But what if I was wrong?"

"You weren't wrong."

_Enterprise_ began its journey over the planet's nightside, so much darker now that there were no lights of any kind, nothing left that might reflect the ship's or the stars' illumination. Malcolm could barely hear his own voice: "then what happened?"

"I dunno, Malc," Trip said, "that's what we're tryin' to find out." Malcolm heard his sigh, so far away inside the ship. "Please come in, Malcolm." Trip said, his voice tired. "Our next shift starts in two hours anyway. My crew'll be launchin' the atmospheric probe."

"Yes," Malcolm said. He really should go in. He wanted to know what the probe's readings would be.

"Don't make me order you, Malcolm."

"No need, sir," Malcolm replied, "I'm coming in."

* * *

He was back in the shuttle bay, running his scanner over the scorched aft of the shuttle again. The atmospheric probe had read massive amounts of boro carbons in the planet's atmosphere, which meant that plasma exhaust had started the reaction that destroyed the colony.

Trip had been standing right beside him at his station, as close as propriety allowed. He had been trying to give him comfort, in whatever small way he could while they were still on duty, but Malcolm couldn't even make himself look at him. Malcolm had insisted—oh, God, how many times was it now?—That the plasma ducts had been closed and locked down; that there had been no leaks. But he might as well have been shouting into vacuum. He felt like a drowning man grasping at straws, a murderer trying to convince the crowd of his innocence while the horses pulled the cart to the gallows.

Murderer. Well, that's what he was, wasn't it?

And now they were going 'home'. Back to Earth, back to the black looks from his family and the notoriety of the man who had set back human progress for another twenty years. Part of him even welcomed it—the hatred, the dishonourable discharge. It would be better than the cold fury from Mayweather, or the pain in Archer's eyes; or Trip's constant, undiminished love and forgiveness, as if he had any right to even look for that now. As if there was any way he could hope to be forgiven.

His team had confirmed that there was a strange EM signature on the shuttle, and he had given the results to T'Pol to give to the captain. But he knew he was really going through the motions now, putting up some pretense that it wasn't all over, that he was still being a good Reed and not going down without a fight. As if the next straw he grabbed would be the one to stop him from drowning.

He felt rather than heard the presence behind him; knew it was Trip from the sound of the man's breath.

"Hey," Trip said.

Malcolm nodded in reply but didn't turn around. There it was again—the EM signature, as inexplicable as ever, and probably as meaningless. He tensed when he felt Trip's hands on his shoulders.

"Ya gotta stop this, Malc," Trip's voice was gentle but insistent. His fingers began working at the knotted muscles near Malcolm's neck, but the lieutenant moved away from him. Malcolm could hear Trip's sigh, imagine the taller man crossing his arms. "You're just drivin' yourself crazy—there ain't nothin' left to find."

" _There has to be_!" Malcolm whirled on Trip, all but shouting. His voice echoed harshly in the empty shuttle bay. "There has to be something to explain what happened!" He knew he was talking far too loudly, gripping the scanner so hard his knuckles were white and painful, his hand trembling. "How can the logs say one thing and the evidence another? How could this have happened when the bloody ship says the ducts were closed?" It always came back to that: his memory and the shuttle's logs showed one thing, the horrendous evidence another. It was enough to make someone insane—if he wasn't already. He had begun to feel like all this was some surreal nightmare from which he would never awaken.

"I don't know," Trip sighed. He shook his head, his blue eyes filled only with sympathy. "I don't know. I wish I did."

"Then help me find it!" Malcolm did shout then. He struck viciously with a fisted hand at the shuttle behind him, barely noticing the noise and pain. "God _damn_ you! How can you stand there and tell me there's nothing? I thought you never gave up," he spat through clenched teeth. "I thought there was always hope as long as we were alive."

"Absolutely," Trip nodded seriously, his voice calm despite his partner's outburst. "But this ain't right, Malc." He gestured at the shuttle, the place where Malcolm's fist had struck moments before. "You're drivin' yourself to some kinda' breakdown, or worse. When was the last time you slept? Or ate anything?" He took in the lieutenant's pallor and haggard features. "This isn't doing anyone any good. Least of all the Paraagans."

Malcolm looked away, closing his eyes. "You don't understand. You weren't even involved. How could you possibly understand?"

Now Trip's voice sounded slightly stiff, "I was in that shuttle same as you were—I'm as involved as anyone."

Malcolm just shook his head. He turned back to the small vessel though he made no moves to continue his scan. "It's just me," he said, his voice quiet now, dead of emotion. "It's just me—I was the pilot, no one else. Don't you understand?"

Trip cleared his throat loudly. "Ah don't recall any orders 'bout only you returnin' to Earth."

Malcolm didn't respond. He put both hands on the hated shuttle pod, feeling the coldness of the smooth metal under his palms.

"Malc..." Trip sounded pained. He covered one of Malcolm's hands with his own, tried to take it, but the lieutenant yanked his hand away from him.

"Don't." He said. It hurt to speak, to breathe. He could tell Trip was hurt just by the man's silence, but he had no energy to try and make it right. He couldn't make anything right. He didn't even know where to begin.

"I'm tryin' t' help you, Malc," Trip said. He was obviously trying to keep his patience.

"Then help me find out what happened."

"I'm _not_ gonna help ya work y'self t'death!" Trip snapped. He took a deep breath, calming down with an effort. "You have one hour to get to bed, _Lieutenant_ , or I'm gonna get the doc down here to drag yer butt to sickbay."

"I'll leave when I've finished."

"That's an order!"

Malcolm turned his head slightly, regarding his partner out of the corner of his eye. "I said I'd leave when I'm finished, Commander—if you want me out of here you'll have to drag me yourself."

Trip looked angry enough to take him up on it, and Malcolm's muscles tensed though he knew he was in no shape to fight. But Trip just exhaled sharply and turned on his heel. "You know where my quarters are." He said.

Malcolm listened to the sharp click of the engineer's boot soles as he walked out of the shuttle bay. He resumed scanning.

* * *

When the captain called him to his quarters Malcolm was almost relieved. He supposed he was going to be relieved of duty, and wondered idly if Trip had anything to do with it. Not that it mattered—he was privately surprised that Archer had kept him at his post this long.

While he was in the lift it occurred to him that in some way he had been waiting for this to happen ever since he arrived on _Enterprise_. He had been so concerned that he would make a bad enough mistake that Archer would realize what a poor choice he had been and send him home. The feeling had lessened the longer he'd been on the ship; it had almost disappeared entirely when he had found out that Trip loved him. But it had never truly gone away: always there like a sword above his head; like some monster in the dark waiting to take him down.

Now it had finally happened. He had been right all along.

Porthos padded over to him as soon as Archer opened his door, but Malcolm ignored the dog, standing at attention while he waited for the words that would both confirm and end everything. Part of him knew there was no point, that military discipline could hardly matter now, would mean little to Archer and nothing to the Paraagans, but he was still a Reed and would see this through to the last.

Abruptly he wished Trip could be there, then was just as glad the commander wasn't.

But the words he expected didn't come. Instead the captain sent him back to the shuttle bay, to scan the aft end of the shuttle with a phase discriminator this time, and told him exactly what he would find.

* * *

The device was a ring barely the size of his palm, with alternating triangles of green and bronze. Pretty, if you didn't consider what it had done.

Malcolm was kneeling on the metal deck; in front of the plasma duct he had found the mechanism underneath, his right forearm across his raised leg and his forehead resting on his arm. He still had the phase discriminator in his left hand. He was clutching the green-and-bronze ring in his right, hard enough to press lines into his hand, as if the moment he loosened his grip it might disappear.

"Malcolm?" It was Trip again, and Malcolm smiled to hear that voice, though he knew Trip couldn't see it. "Jesus Christ—Malcolm!"

Malcolm heard and felt Trip drop to his knees beside him, felt the engineer's strong arm over his back. He turned so that he was facing Trip, also on his knees, looking up into his partner's anxious face.

"Look," he said, without preamble, holding up the small device. Trip's eyes glanced back and forth from the ring to Malcolm's face, obviously worried and not understanding. Malcolm finally dropped the phase discriminator and put his hand on Trip's shoulder. He knew his eyes were wet, that he probably looked more than slightly mad, but he didn't care. "I didn't do it, Trip," he said, "I really didn't do it."

Trip swallowed. His own eyes were glistening now, but he grinned. "Good t'hear," He managed. He pulled Malcolm to him in a fierce embrace.

Malcolm returned the embrace like his life depended on it. He was weeping now, sobbing like a child, but he couldn't stop no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how unseemly it was. He still held the alien device in his right hand; he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to let go of it. It was like he was holding all that was left of his soul.

Trip just held him, murmuring 'it's okay,' over and over, until Malcolm felt he had himself back under control. He gently pushed himself away from Trip, breathing heavily and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Trip cupped his cheek, using his thumb to brush the last of the tears out of one eye. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No," Malcolm shook his head quickly. "The captain is expecting you."

The engineer gave him a lopsided grin. "Ah still got a few minutes."

"I'll be okay," Malcolm said. He smiled.

Trip leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching. The warmth coming from him felt almost enough to burn. "You sure?"

"Yes." Malcolm said, but he almost staggered as he pulled himself to his feet, and Trip, standing much more easily, reached out to steady him. He could feel his exhaustion like a creaking in his bones, but he knew it wouldn't matter at all; he would still be able to carry out any order the captain gave him. "Please tell the captain I'll be along shortly."

Trip looked dubious for a moment, then threaded his hands through Malcolm's hair and bent his head to his for a kiss. He pulled back and dropped a quick kiss on Malcolm's forehead. "See ya soon."

As he turned away Malcolm grabbed his hand, making Trip look back at him. "Thank you," Malcolm said.

Trip nodded. They held each other's hand for a moment, then Trip walked out of the shuttle bay. Malcolm watched him leave.

He would go up in a minute. He needed to confirm what he was already sure of—that the small green-and-bronze ring had created the plasma burst. And he desperately wanted to know how Archer had known it would be there. He would need his orders for what they were going to do now.

But that all could wait. Just a moment or two, but it could wait. He kept staring at the device in his hand.

It shone softly, prettily, almost like salvation. It was all right. It was going to be all right.


End file.
